


If the Bird Hadn't Sung

by fredeficandersen



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Hunters, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, cryptid hunter au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26951293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredeficandersen/pseuds/fredeficandersen
Summary: “Hi! I’m the Jersey Devil. But you probably already knew that, because you…” The lips attached to the face curl upward, and if it weren’t for the impending sense of doom clouding all of Nolan’s thoughts, he would say the smile is pretty. “You are trying to kill me.”ORNolan, cryptid hunter extraordinaire, is tasked with capturing the Jersey Devil.
Relationships: Nico Hischier/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I took this one Uquiz called "Answer some questions and I'll tell you which homoerotic rivalry you're in", got the cryptid answer, and the rest is history.
> 
> I meant to write this whole thing before October rolled around, but guess who has no sense of discipline or willpower?
> 
> Also, I am aware that this is a dead ship; I am simply indulging myself.

_Bzz, bzzzz!_

The sound —feeling?— reverberates through Nolan’s skull, slowly pulling him out the world of dreams. For a moment he thinks his migraines have come back and this is some sort of aura he has never experienced before. But as he opens his eyes, he feels the hard plastic of his phone case against his forehead and remembers he fell asleep playing Fortnite yet again. He picks up his phone, _No caller ID_ flashing across his screen, and groans. 

Mr. G thinks he’s clever. He really, really believes Nolan is going to answer this after ignoring his emails, text messages, and straight up telling G he doesn’t want to be in the business any longer. He hits decline, and immediately his screen lights up again with another call from an unknown number. The same unknown number, Nolan assumes.

Mr. G doesn’t get it. He didn’t go to Van Meter. He wasn’t blinded by the beams of white light. He didn’t experience the searing pain that shot through Nolan when the Visitor punched a hole through his shoulder. He doesn’t know what it is to feel the air sucked out of his body, his vision going black. He can’t recall desperately trying to expand his chest, thirsting after any molecule of oxygen that could be in the air, only to find that disgusting stench streaking every square inch around him. Steeling himself, knowing he has a job to do. Summoning whatever willpower is still hidden deep in his core, ignoring the cries of pain coming from the left side of his body. 

He doesn’t know running, at least not running for his literal life because the Visitor is still after him, still trying to finish its task. Mr. G could never imagine what it’s like to feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, sharpening his instincts. Organizing his scattered thoughts in a second because his life depends on it. He can’t remember pulling out his knives and throwing them in every direction as he turns around, hoping one of them sinks into the weird creature’s skin. He doesn’t know the euphoria of seeing one of them penetrating the cryptid’s wing, making it falter long enough for Nolan to take out his gun and fire. And fire. And fire.

Mr. G doesn’t remember blacking out. Although, to be fair, neither does Nolan. He only recalls blurry, rugged edges surrounding him and a yellow light appearing skewed from the hard hat thrown haphazardly against the far wall. And then the pain. And the dizzying odor. Positioning himself to crawl on all fours because his eyes can’t focus, the sharp ache bolting through his shoulder all the way to the tip of his index finger. That awful sting making his elbow buckle, careening his face into the dark floor of the coal mine.

The only thing Mr. G knows, and ultimately, the only thing he cares about, is that Nolan brought back the Van Meter Visitor’s carcass, devoid of any blood and wrapped up like a gift in the Organization issued net.

And he knows that the Organization and Mr. G helped him. He's aware that they offered the best surgeons and the best physical therapists Philadelphia has to offer. He knows they came up with enough money to shut up the physicians and have them turn a blind eye to the gaping hole in Nolan's shoulder. But still, they could never, ever expect to understand the months of pain Nolan endured, littered with insecurities and doubts about whether he'd be able to use his left arm again. Whether he was good enough for this gig. They didn't spend months sidelined, barely getting out of their beds thanks to morphine. Too much morphine. Too much grogginess. Too much pain.

So Nolan understands Mr. G's insistence. That man doesn't get it; he can't get it. But still, Nolan is sick of it. 

He declines the call and, miraculously, no other call comes through. Nolan breathes a small sigh of relief, his eyelids steadily closing, pulling him back to a world of bliss.

He wakes up maybe two hours later, feeling like the calls were nothing more than nightmares. He walks to his refrigerator, still not fully awake. Half a carton of eggs and some orange juice stare back at him. He really needs to go to the supermarket. He picks up the orange juice and starts digging for a cup when the doorbell rings. But who is here on a Saturday morning? He didn't invite anyone.

"Coming!" he yells from the kitchen. The cup in between his teeth and the juice cradled in his arm, he unlocks the door.

Two men clad in black suits storm in, all but knocking him over. At almost the same time, a third swings into the living room from the window, shattering it.

"What the fuck!" Nolan screeches. The cup escapes his teeth, tumbling down. He turns, already planning on jumping out of his bedroom window, when one of the men pulls him by the back of his shirt. The carefully held orange juice falls to the ground, spilling its contents over the tile floors.

The man pulls Nolan all the way to his couch and manhandles him until he's sitting down. The three men crowd around him, blocking his view and any possible way out.

Nolan feels like prey and he doesn't like any of it. He's a hunter, a cryptid hunter no less, and the world will be damned before Nolan lets these men get their way. His mind is racing a mile an hour, just like it did back in the mine, trying to pinpoint the exit, trying to figure out how to escape. He pictures the location of his truck outside, wonders if he could turn it on in time before the men start chasing him. He needs his keys, which are in a bowl on his bedside table. He needs a gun, at least, but he's got plenty in his truck. He can do this, he thinks; he just needs to find the men's weak points.

The sound of footsteps takes him out of his scheming momentarily. The three men separate, giving Nolan just enough of a view to see a fourth man walking into his apartment. He's wearing the same black suit as the others, but he's wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses. And most importantly, he has that fiery red beard that Nolan now wishes he hadn't ever come across in his life. So the calls weren't a nightmare, after all.

"Doc," the man says, taking off his sunglasses.

"Mr. G," Nolan replies, trying to hide the edge of unease in his voice.

Mr. G looks around the living room. "This is a nice place you've got here."

"Sure would be nicer with intact windows, sir."

Mr. G gives him a short laugh. "Well, you have to understand, I needed to contact you. And you didn't want to contact me."

"I thought I'd said I wanted out."

"Yes, you did. But, see, I never said I agreed."

Nolan opens his mouth to object, but Mr. G instantly says, "Can I sit?" as he gestures with his glasses to the armchair directly in front of Nolan. He doesn't wait for Nolan's response, just plops down and makes himself right at home.

Nolan takes a deep breath. "You said I was inactive."

"Inactive?" Mr. G muses for a moment, absentmindedly munching on one of the temple tips. "Ah, yes. I'm reactivating you. I think enough time has passed and your shoulder has healed, yes?"

"Mr. G." Nolan clasps his hands together, places his elbows on his thighs, and leans forward, trying to breach the gap between him and the other man. The three troglodytes —because that's the only way Nolan can describe them, after they destroyed his precious window and made him spill his orange juice— surge forward, ready to defend their boss, Nolan guesses, at whatever cost.

Mr. G waves them away and Nolan continues. "When I said I wanted out, I meant permanently. I don't want to be reactivated. I hope you understand."

Mr. G smirks. "I'm sorry, Doc, I don't understand. And, to be honest, I don't think you really mean that." He leans forward, matching Nolan's posture. "I can see it in your eyes. You're a hunter by nature. And you miss it. It's clear as day. The only thing stopping you right now is fear. Fear that you'll endure all that pain again. That you'll lose another year of your life, correct?"

Nolan mumbles something that Mr. G takes as confirmation. Mr. G leans closer to Nolan and slowly, gently places his hand on Nolan's shoulder.

"You can't live your life in fear, kid. You'll miss out on your greatest adventures."

Nolan locks eyes with Mr. G for a split second and sees that he means it. Somewhere far beneath the Clive Christian cologne, Guanashina fabric, and Bolvaint dress shoes, Mr. G has a heart. And that heart cares for Nolan. Epiphany is a mild word to describe what Nolan thinks he's experiencing, but it'll do.

"We didn't leave you out to dry when you had your incident, did we?" Mr. G asks.

"No, sir."

"Do you think we'll leave you out to dry if you have another one?"

"No, sir," he says, quieter this time.

"So, what do you say?"

Nolan doesn't say anything, just stares at Mr. G's tie. It is always perfectly knotted into what Google said was an "Eldredge knot", as intricate and sophisticated as Mr. G himself. If Nolan wasn't so fucking terrified of the man, he would've asked him to teach him how to do it.

"Well," Mr. G says, dropping his hand from Nolan's shoulder. He stands up, buttoning his suit jacket. "I expect to hear from you soon. I need to know which account the reward money is going to."

"Reward money?" Nolan asks, his interest piqued.

"Yes, Doc. You know there is always reward money."

"How much are we talking about?" He tries to sound nonchalant about it, but even as the words leave his mouth he knows he fails.

Mr. G says an amount so exorbitant Nolan isn't sure he heard right. "Excuse me?" he stammers.

This earns him a chuckle. "You heard right."

"You going after Bigfoot or something?"

"Of course not. He doesn't belong in our niche. We're looking for another cryptid. Pardon, but I would prefer to only discuss those details with someone who has already committed to the cause."

Nolan needs time to process this. He's scared Mr. G will grow impatient and move on, but he only stares, composure etched into his features. Nolan thinks about the reward money, and it really is a good sum of money, and he really does need to go to the supermarket and he's sure his bank account is almost reaching negative numbers. He now needs to fix the window too, dammit.

But as he lets his thoughts wander he knows there's something else, something tugging at his sides. He pictures himself setting up his rifle, hidden in some dark shed, awaiting his prey. The spike of adrenaline as he sees it, the deep inhaling as he aims, the exhaling as he shoots clean through a creature's eye. No, bad aim. It whizzes past it, barely scratching its cheekbone. That alerts the creature to someone hunting him, and suddenly Nolan is the one being hunted. The running, the panic, the searing pain, unable to know if he will make it out alive.

He feels himself losing his grip on reality, so he concentrates on his breathing. One, two. One, two. 

Despite everything, Mr. G is right. Nolan can't deny that he is primarily a hunter. And the fucking Van Meter Visitor can't take that away from him. He can't live in fear for the rest of his life. So he takes one deep breath and stands upright.

"I'm in."

"I knew you'd see reason."

"So where am I going?"

Mr. G puts his sunglasses on and smiles. "New Jersey."

☿♆☿♆

"The Jersey Devil has been around for a long time. It was born in 1735 to Jane Leeds. After getting pregnant for the thirteenth time, she cursed the child in frustration, saying it would be the devil. First born as a normal child, the creature quickly developed hooves, bat wings, a goat's head, and a forked tail. It flew up the chimney with a bloodcurdling scream and headed into the Pine Barrens, where it remains today."

Nolan holds back a yawn and tries to compose his face into one of blasé unconcern. "I don't mean to offend you, uh—" He stares at the man's nameplate. He's never learned his name and he certainly won't start now. "Ghost. All you've said is very interesting, and the Powerpoint is a nice touch, but I'm a cryptid hunter. I do my research. I already know this."

The other guy in the room, younger, blond, probably closer to Nolan's age and definitely trying to climb the ranks in the Organization, stifles a laugh. Ghost hears him, though, and rolls his eyes. "Why are you always like this?"

"Well, I want to hunt. And, to be honest, this feels like a waste of time. So, if you'll excuse me." Nolan stands up and heads for the door, but the bastard that broke his window blocks his exit, towering over him. "I'd like to leave, if possible."

"Not possible," the man says gruffly.

"Doc, you might think you've done your research, but this cryptid has 4,500 square kilometers of land to roam. We need you to know every piece of information there is out there so you can narrow the perimeter," Ghost says from behind him.

Nolan sighs and sits back in his chair. "Fine, but I'm giving you 10 minutes. I got a Devil to hunt."

Nolan listens intently to Ghost's explanation of the Pine Barrens, a fucking gigantic ecosystem occupying 22% of New Jersey. He learns about the different places the Devil has been sighted—Burlington and Haddon Heights and Camden and Trenton and all the way to Leiperville—and starts to feel uneasy. The beast has been everywhere. He needs to narrow down his habitat to one spot. If he doesn't find a place to settle down, to shoot from afar hidden in the bushes, he could easily find himself being hunted again. But how is he supposed to avoid that?

He voices his concerns to Ghost, who gives him a small smile.

"So you haven't researched everything."

Nolan rolls his eyes. The blond guy changes the Powerpoint slide, revealing a picture of a vibrant blue lake surrounded by thickets of the greenest trees Nolan has ever seen.

"This is Winslow Township's Blue Hole," Ghost says, gesturing toward the screen. "Locals say there is a small part of it that is always cold, even in the summer, but never freezes over. What really scares them is how deep it is. They say no one has reached the bottom. They call it the Devil's Puddle."

Nolan smiles. "Thank you, Ghost. This wasn't a total waste of my time."

He stands up, but the bastard man is still blocking the door.

"You know the protocol, Doc."

Nolan mutters _fuck_ under his breath low enough for it to be unintelligible for the men around him. "I don't know any secrets, bud. I don't even know your guys' real names."

"And we'd like to keep it that way."

"Whatever," Nolan mumbles. He closes his eyes just as the dark cloth is pulled over his head.

Two hands grip his biceps, propelling him forward. He tries to count the number of times they turn a corner to see if there is one thing he can know for certain about this place. But they turn so many times and walk for so long that he loses count.

When the cloth is removed, Mr. G is sitting across the room from him, his other two bodyguards—the not so bastard ones—laying an arsenal of weapons on a table in front of him. Brownings, Remingtons, Winchesters all decorate the table, alongside Smith & Wessons, Thompsons, and a MOA Maximum. 

Nolan should be used to it by now, really. He's seen all these weapons before, or most of them. He can see there are shiny new additions. But he still feels like a kid in a candy store, and he has to physically restrain himself from smiling and picking up each weapon to just stare.

"You know what to do," Mr. G says.

Nolan nods. He scans the long line of weapons, his eyes settling on an Anschutz 1517 American Varminter, the scope already installed. He picks it up, assesses it. He then chooses a Ruger Redhawk and four Buck Knives 120 just in case, the wood and gold handles calling to him.

"I'm all set."

"Go get dressed," Mr. G nods his head toward a door on his right. "Snake and Coots will escort you once you're ready."

Nolan shudders inwardly at the thought of being escorted by Mr. G's not so bastard bodyguards, but heads into the dressing room anyway. He laces up his boots and ties them—a once in a lifetime moment, really—when a knock on the door signals that he should hurry up because the van is probably out there waiting. He zips up his hunting jacket and opens the door, where the damned black cloth is waiting for him with open arms. 

This time, he doesn't try to memorize the route, opting to zone out while he's practically thrown into the van and Mr. G's bastard sons bark instructions at the driver to only take the cloth off once they're far away from the Organization.

“Sorry I have to keep you in the dark, bud,” the driver says.

“No problem, Tiki. It's not your fault.”

After a few minutes in amicable silence, Tiki says, “So, what are we hunting today?”

“The Jersey Devil.” But Tiki probably already knew that. He's just trying to make conversation, Nolan can tell, and he feels a small twinge of endearment creeping up on the edges of his heart.

“Ah, going after the big money, aren't you?”

“Only that can get me out of retirement.”

“That and Mr. G,” Tiki thinks he says under his breath.

“What about you? Been hunting anything good lately?” Nolan says, trying to change the direction of this conversation.

“Nothing big like you, bud. Just some squirrels. The other day I took down a deer.”

“Oh, that's nice. You should consider going into the hunting side of the business.”

“No way, man.”

“Why not? You're a good hunter, and you like it, too.”

Tiki laughs breathlessly and Nolan thinks he can hear him scratch his head. “Let me take that off, bud. We're far enough away.”

“Thanks,” Nolan says as his eyes try to adjust to the light. 

He wants to go back to their conversation, but he knows why Tiki is avoiding answering the question. He's a hunter just like Nolan, and just like Nolan he doesn't like to be the prey. After seeing what Nolan went through, Tiki probably repressed whatever ounce of his heart wanted to become a cryptid hunter, convincing himself that he would feel fulfilled hunting any small mammals he could find.

“Well, I hope you get into it soon. I need a successor,” Nolan says half joking, even though he knows full well Tiki won't take him up on the offer. Tiki only smiles, his eyes never leaving the road.

They make small talk as they drive down the North-South Freeway and continue onto the Expressway. Tiki tries to show Nolan pictures of his dogs, Nolan insists he doesn't need to take his phone out while he's speeding down the middle of the fucking highway. Instead, he diverts the conversation to music, specifically the music Tiki has on the radio.

“What is this, man?” He crinkles his nose and attempts to turn the volume down, but Tiki swats his hand away.

“The driver chooses the music, bud.”

“No, he doesn't. Who the hell taught you driving etiquette? They did a shit job.”

“My dad did, you fucking asshole,” Tiki says, laughing.

“Your dad doesn't know good manners.”

“Everyone in Clachan does it.”

“Clachan? Oh, that explains everything.” Nolan chuckles, but he becomes serious when he turns his head and sees Tiki staring fixedly at the road. “I'm just kidding, bud.”

“I know, it's just…” Nolan can see Tiki taking a deep breath before saying, “We're not supposed to reveal information about us, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, I…” Nolan's eyes flit from Tiki's face to the road to his hands. “Don't even know what we were talking about. How much longer?”

“Just a little bit.”

They drive in silence and barely at the speed limit the rest of the way, only decelerating when they reach Exit 33. 

Nolan sees the Winslow Fish and Wildlife Management Area looming over him, vast and green and filled with so much beauty he feels appreciation for life in what feels like forever.

“This is as far as I can take you, bud,” Tiki says, crawling to a stop. He opens the glove box directly above Nolan's knees and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “This is the trail you have to take. It's pretty easy. See, we're here and you need to get there.”

“Yeah, that's good. Thanks, Tiki.”

Nolan unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the van, slinging on a backpack he guesses the bastards had prepared for him. He checks if his gun and his rifle are loaded, and then stashes away everything except for his rifle, which he holds fast to his side.

“You have an idea when I should pick you up? Don't want you hanging out with monsters late at night.”

Nolan smiles. “I'll call, but I don't think I'll spend too many hours here. I mean, it's just the Devil.”

Tiki laughs. “Sure thing, bud.” Nolan starts walking when he hears, “Oh, Doc, I forgot!”

Nolan turns around. “Yeah?”

“They want it alive this time.”

☿♆☿♆

Nolan can see he is reaching his destination without even looking at the trashy map Tiki gave him—he's certain Mr. G assigned Tiki to do the map and he bullshitted it last minute—because the clear blue water he remembers from Ghost's Powerpoint starts making cracks in the monotonous brown-and-green view. He stops for a second and crouches, silently nearing the body of water in case the creature is already there. He aims his rifle, looks through the scope at the entire lake and, once he's sure it's devoid of other living beings, moves toward the water. It's even more beautiful than the picture, the vastness of the Blue Hole alluring, inviting him to wade in and bask in the midmorning sun. Unfortunately for him, Nolan has a cryptid to hunt. One that could appear at any given moment, incidentally.

He shuffles back into the dense trees, inspecting the landscape for branches and sharpening the ends with one of his knives as he goes. Once he is covered by the greenery, he rummages through his bag and finds the rest of the materials for his net trap, a contraption that realistically and hopefully he won't use, but something that offers him a small sense of security anyway. He hammers in the support pegs, praying that the Devil doesn't decide to appear now, and binds the support stick to the pegs. He positions his trigger stick and lays out the net. He chooses the limb of an overhanging tree and sets up the cordage. He doesn't know how much the Jersey Devil can reason, so he picks up various leaves from the forest floor to cover up just in case.

He backtracks a couple of meters and finds a small clearing in the midst of all the trees. There, he sets his rifle on the ground, shifting to find the perfect position to allow for a clear shot on the first attempt. The Devil may not cast beams of light, but Nolan isn't taking any chances.

As the minutes spread into hours, he becomes progressively more impatient and his stomach starts to grumble. Judging by the positioning of the sun, it must be past midday. He searches through his bag and finds a small sandwich wrapped up in plastic wrap. He begrudgingly thanks the bastards in his mind and downs the sandwich in record time, partly because of hunger, partly because he doesn't want the scent to linger in case the Devil arrives.

Above him, Nolan hears a whistling sound. He looks up immediately, but whatever it is is far in front of him. He follows the noise through the cloudless sky and all the way to the Blue Hole. He looks through the scope of his rifle.

And speak of the Devil, literally. Hundreds of meters in front of Nolan, a pair of hooves tread noiselessly along the lake's shoreline. Nolan moves his rifle up the figure and cocks his head to the side reflexively. He was expecting to see dark fur replacing the hooves, but what he sees is a pair of cream-colored calves covered in light brown hair like… like his own?

He moves the scope upward, following the creature’s body. Those look like human legs, and that looks like a human torso—a _chiseled_ human torso, at that—, and those look like human arms. And that… that is definitely a human head. Where the fuck is the goat-bat hybrid?

He gasps for a split second and his rifle shifts position just enough that the Devil, if it really is the Devil, is out of view. He quickly recalibrates his aim, but when he looks through the scope he can’t find anything. Not a pair of hooves, not a pair of human legs, fucking nothing. He swivels to his right, nothing; to the left, still nothing. He turns back to his right and the vision through his scope is obscured.

He feels his heart pounding against his eardrums and his chest, his breath quickening, his mouth drying. His muscles tense, ready for the recoil.

He pulls back from the scope. Staring back at him is a face with two pitch black eyes, no whites except for a small glint on each side. Above them, a pair of perfectly sculpted eyebrows lie laxly. 

“Hi! I’m the Jersey Devil. But you probably already knew that, because you…” The lips attached to the face curl upward, and if it weren’t for the impending sense of doom clouding all of Nolan’s thoughts, he would say the smile is pretty. “You are trying to kill me.”


	2. Chapter 2

“No, I–” Nolan pulls a ragged breath in, feels the cogs in his brain turning as he comes to terms with the fact that this feels like a déjà vu. As he comes to terms with the fact that he's actually talking to a fucking cryptid. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

Which isn’t a lie, technically.

The Devil’s head falls backward in laughter, a noise that sounds strangely  _ human _ . “So you brought that rifle to play with me?”

“I’m hunting, uh, squirrels.”

The Devil cackles for so long that it loses its breath and tears spring from its eyes. It wipes them away as it holds its belly and says, “You’re a funny human.”

Nolan doesn’t think he can, but he attempts to realign all of the nervous energy in his body into figuring a way out of this. He takes in his surroundings, holding on to every sound his ears can pick up. He never gazes away from the Devil, afraid that any minuscule change in his posture might anger it.

It? Him? It has hooves and terrifying demon eyes and dark horns coming out of its forehead that curve back like S's. Nolan can see two black shadows peeking from behind its back that he guesses are its wings and, like, of course that’s not human. But it also has this straight brown hair tucked behind its ears that Nolan can just tell is so soft to the touch, and it has teeth straighter than any braces could achieve and dimples when it smiles. Dimples! What cryptid has fucking dimples?

The Jersey Devil relaxes, gaining its breath, and leans closer to Nolan. “Tell me, really, why are you here? And I'll know if you're lying. You're bad at it.”

Nolan can see in its eyes that if he lies he might not make it out alive. So through clenched teeth he says, “I wanted to capture you. Alive.”

“Oh?” The Devil's eyes widen in astonishment. Still pitch black, but slightly less terrifying. “And why is that?”

“My employer–”

“Hmm? You have a very low pitch.”

Nolan almost rolls his eyes, but remembers his life is on the line. He clears his throat. “My employer wants you alive.”

“Employer? You sure are one interesting human.” The Devil stands up and motions for Nolan to follow it. “Let's do it, then.”

“Huh?” Nolan copies its movements absentmindedly.

“You want to capture me, right? So, come on, try. My schedule is cleared for today.”

Nolan struggles to form a coherent sentence. After a couple of seconds, he settles on, "The fuck?”

The Devil starts walking backward, paying no attention to Nolan's murmurs. “I promise I won't use my wings to escape you if you promise not to use the rifle. Those bullets feel really uncomfortable.”

It stops, senses that Nolan hasn't moved an inch, and surges forward. It grabs Nolan by the wrist and pulls him until they are both standing a few feet away from Nolan's rifle.

“Okay, I think this will do. Do you have any other weapons? You can use those.” The Devil smiles.

And Nolan is just… so fucking confused.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, even as he unzips his jacket and takes out his knives.

“I'm bored. It has also been a while since a human has been so brave to get so close to my home. I think you deserve a prize for it. And maybe if you make it out alive you can tell your friends later.” It looks down at Nolan's thigh, where his Ruger Redhawk is safely tucked in a holster. “I hope you're not using that. I might feel tempted to use my wings.”

He takes the gun out of his holster and throws it toward his rifle. “What  _ are _ you using?” 

“Just my fists and my brain.” Its face looks like it's trying to hold back a laugh. The Jersey Devil has a sense of humor? One that sucks, at any given rate.

“That doesn't seem fair.”

For the first time since their encounter, the Jersey Devil looks pissed. Its eyes narrow and all sense of jest vanishes from its face. “And you care a lot about fairness, hunter? Setting up your weapons, stalking your prey, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on them? All this without making yourself known, without ever giving them a chance to run?”

The words are spoken with so much acidity that Nolan feels his insides corroding. The Devil squares up. 

“Whenever you're ready, hunter,” it says, spitting the last word like it's the most bitter thing it's ever tasted.

And Nolan is in a tight fucking situation. He knows some self defense; at least he had enough common sense to enroll in classes, to practice jousting his knives as if they were swords, blocking imaginary fists with his wrists in the mirror. But the rifle is his specialty. Looking, scheming from afar. Only nearing the scene when it's secure and tidy, collecting his reward the only job left. In and out, quick and easy, as effortless as pulling the trigger.

The trigger of a gun that is merely two feet away. If he could only bluff the Devil, pretend he was going to strike it, and then run toward the weapon. It would take him a few seconds to reach it, even less to aim and shoot. But he saw the Devil through his scope and it reached him in the blink of an eye. Nolan wouldn't be halfway to his firearm and it would probably have the rifle trained on him.

So that plan's out the window.

He holds a knife in each hand, takes a deep breath in. And then, as if he were aiming his rifle, lunges when he exhales.

The Devil avoids the blow easily, holding hostage Nolan's wrist. It bangs their heads together, pounding Nolan into the ground. Nolan sees black around his periphery, and he feels a pain on his forehead infinitely worse than the one his migraines used to give him. This isn't off to a great start.

“Try harder, please. I really don't have anything to do today,” the Devil says, and it enrages Nolan.

He finds what strength he has in him and stands up, so dizzy he's not sure which way is up. He points his knife at the Devil and the bitch laughs again.

“Are you having some trouble?”

“Go to hell!” Nolan yells. “And stay still, shit!”

“I am still! Oh, I really wish the rest of your kind were more like you!” And then, an actual fucking giggle.

Nolan regains his sense of stability, sees just how much the stupid little cryptid is enjoying playing games with him. He charges again, and just as the Devil is about to seize him he fakes and slashes its cheek. Something that looks like the consistency of blood but is far too dark to be fresh oozes out of the wound.

The Devil huffs. “Good job.”

“Don't patronize me, you fucking freak.”

He dives with his knife. The Devil dodges it. He kicks at its shins. The Devil jumps and punches him in the face. Nolan staggers, blocks the Devil's next blow, and tries to slash its stomach. It jumps back, kicking Nolan in the face. He closes the gap, slashing everywhere his eyes can see. The Devil bars each move. 

Nolan stops, pulling in ragged chunks of air. He puts his hands on his knees, bends over.

“Are you… tired?” A hint of a smile. “I'm sorry, I didn't know you were so out of shape.”

The creature puts its hand on Nolan's shoulder. When Nolan deems it close enough, relaxed enough, he slices the knife through its stomach, a deep gash staining it. The creature looks at the wound and up at Nolan.

“Okay, the party's over.”

It steps back and opens its wings, soaring upward. They look like bat wings, all right. If bat wings were four fucking feet long.

“You said you weren't gonna use your wings!” Nolan screeches, poised to run.

“To escape.”

The creature plunges, only one object in mind. Nolan bolts.

His scattered thoughts don't make any sense. The drumming in his ears doesn't make any sense. His eyes flicker from one tree to the next, green and more green and more fucking green. Some blue, the Blue Hole. From the deepest recesses of his mind, he remembers seeing the lake, backtracking, and setting the trap.

He dashes toward it, zigzagging to throw off the cryptid. It's getting closer. He can feel the wind disrupted by the batting of its wings. He finds one last reserve of adrenaline in his body and quickens his pace.

He sees the scattered leaves and zigs to the right. He hesitates for just a second. The Devil closes in on him. And then Nolan knocks the trigger stick.

The net snaps shut like a flytrap, leaving half of the creature's wing and its head outside of the encasing.

Nolan sticks a knife to its throat and presses his knee to the Devil's chest. “I win.”

Wincing, it says, “Not fair. I didn't know you had a trap.”

“Who said hunters were fair?”

The cryptid emits a bloodcurdling scream that almost shatters Nolan's inner ear.

“Okay, now that's not fucking fair.”

☿♆☿♆

“I don't get why this is necessary,” Tiki says as Nolan rolls the duct tape around the Devil's mouth for the sixth time.

“Trust me on this one.”

“Whatever you say, dude.” 

The creature's ankles and wrists tied, Tiki does a horrendous job at wrapping the cut across its stomach and together they haul it into the back of the van. Tiki drags Nolan by the arm a couple of feet from the vehicle.

“Are you sure that's the Jersey Devil?” Tiki asks.

“Do you see any other goat-bat hybrids around the vicinity?”

“I mean,” Tiki looks toward the van nervously. “It looks human. For the most part.”

“Yeah.” Nolan shrugs.

Tiki sighs and they climb into the car, the machine starting almost soundlessly.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, the low drawl of the singer on the radio the only thing interrupting the quiet. Nolan sees Tiki glancing over his shoulder multiple times.

“What now?”

“I don't know, dude. Its eyes are… weird,” he whispers. “We should've put a blindfold on it or something.”

“You know it can hear you, right?” Nolan says in a monotone voice.

Tiki shuts up.

Nolan glances back at the Devil, finds it staring directly at him. He was expecting to find resentment, hatred, but he just sees disappointment? It's hard to distinguish in the sea of pitch black.

He can tell that it's uncomfortable. The six rows of duct tape are digging into its cheeks, and the gash below its eye has beads of whatever liquid is inside of it forming at the edges. It's in exactly the same position that Tiki and Nolan threw it in, and Nolan assumes it's because it can't really move, from the pain or being bound, he's not sure. He tears his eyes away and stares straight ahead, pushing down the feeling that it is anything more than a monster.

Just before crossing the Delaware River, Tiki picks up the black cloth and hands it to Nolan. “You, uh…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He puts it over his head.

Nolan hears Tiki say, “Hey… Yeah… Up front… No, more… Yeah, that's about right… I think one is good… I mean, yeah, that works too… Okay, bye.”

They ride the rest of the way quietly, until Nolan feels the van crawling to a stop.

He hears Tiki's door opening, a sliding sound, footsteps and jostling, muffled yelps that grow fainter and fainter, feels the side of the car move, a door sliding shut, another one slammed, and then the click of Tiki's seat belt buckle. 

“What do you want to listen to, bud?” 

“It's not here anymore?”

“No, they took it.”

“Who?”

“Snake and Coots.” Ah, the bastards.

“Just, whatever, as long as it's not country.”

Tiki talks shit the whole way to Nolan's house, about the weather in Philly and the traffic and his favorite country artists and how Nolan “should totally listen to them”, as if that would ever happen, and how people are always on their phones now and when he's back home he just pretends his doesn't even exist. Nolan thinks Tiki is about to mess up again and say more than he should when he feels a hand on his head tugging, and starts to see the light again. The van stops in front of Nolan's apartment.

“Sorry, bud. I forgot to take it off before.”

“You don't have to apologize all the time, you know? I don't care, really. I get my money, you get your cryptid. It's whatever.”

“Yeah, I guess so. I'll see you around?” Tiki calls as Nolan makes his way to the front door.

“You know where to find me.”

☿♆☿♆

Over the next two weeks, Nolan gets to stuff his fridge to the brim with food and fix the fucking window with his shiny reward money. He's checking his bank account, figuring out what exactly he should do with the rest, when  _ No caller ID _ flashes across his phone screen.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Doc, how have you been?” Mr. G says.

“Good, sir. What about you?”

“Fantastic. Listen, I have a business proposal and I would love it if you came to the Organization to discuss it.”

“Of course, sir. When would we meet?”

“In approximately 20 minutes. Tiki's waiting for you outside.”

Nolan glances out the window and, sure enough, the black van is parked right in front of his apartment building. Nolan still hasn't showered and is only wearing his boxer shorts, so he says timidly, “Can we make it 30 minutes?”

“No. See you soon!” And a click.

Nolan throws on whatever he finds first, not bothering to fix his hair or tie his shoes, and rushes out the door.

“I didn't know your job was just driving me around,” he says as he climbs into the car. “It's good, though. Saves me gas.”

Tiki rolls his eyes and drives away.

“Where's the cloth?”

“No cloth today, buddy.”

Nolan scrunches his eyebrows and looks at Tiki out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't say anything.

They arrive at the Organization faster than he expected, halting in front of a three story, Regency style building, not at all what Nolan pictured the place to look like. A bastard son waits on the portico for Tiki and Nolan, who follow him into the building and down a set of intricately designed stairs.

Ah, this place is more like what Nolan remembers from the limited spaces he was allowed to see. The walls are gray, low hanging lights way too bright. Everything looks corporate and weirdly sterile.

They turn right and walk down the corridor until a door is opened to his left and he is invited in, alone. In front of him, in all his ginger glory, is Mr. G.

“Good ride?”

“Yes, sir,” he says as he hears the door close behind him. Mr. G beckons him to sit and he obliges.

“I'm glad. Well, let's get straight to business.” He clears his throat. “As you might have noticed, we have used your services a couple of times now. I have noticed you have become an invaluable part of the Organization. So I have thought about it and slept on it, and decided to offer you a permanent position. We can discuss the details later, but for now I want to show you around.”

Mr. G stands up and heads to the door immediately, not waiting for Nolan to follow. Nolan is still registering what he just heard when he stands up.

“Sir, wait,” he says when he catches up with Mr. G's pace. “You didn't… I mean, I didn't get to talk, sir.”

Mr. G halts, looks Nolan in the eyes. “Pardon?”

“I didn't get to say if I agreed or not,” he stammers. Nolan can feel his cheeks getting red and he stares at the floor, wondering what he needs to do to make it swallow him whole.

“Well, do you agree?”

He's about to object, say that he works independently and prefers it that way, but in all honesty, all his past gigs have been commissions from the Organization. If he worked for them full time, they would pay him consistently, and Nolan wouldn't have to find a way to scramble by on reward money he got months ago. Plus, Mr. G's tone makes him think that the less he talks, the better.

So he mumbles, “Yes, sir” and walks alongside him.

“Welcome to the Flying Cryptids Organization, officially.” He smiles at Nolan. “We specialize in flying cryptids, but I think the name gives it away. We are a private organization, but we offer our services to the government, of course.”

“What kind of services?”

“Information on cryptids, their whereabouts, the research we conduct.”

He opens a door to a small room filled with screens, all showing different parts of what Nolan assumes is the outside of the Organization. One of Mr. G's bastard sons is sitting on a chair in front of them.

“This is Snake. I'm certain you've seen him before.”

“Yes, nice to meet you, officially.”

Snake nods his head and turns back to the monitors, leaving Nolan with just a bush of red hair to look at.

Mr. G turns around the corner. “This is the meeting room. We conduct business with outsiders here, for the most part. I'm sure you remember it."

He keeps walking until he reaches the main hallway and turns right. "These are the main offices. You will be working here, with Ghost and Piano.” He points at both men, who seem to be concentrating all three of their collective neurons in figuring out how a stapler works.

“Welcome aboard,” Ghost says. Nolan nods.

He is ushered into other rooms, sees Tiki pressing down keys on a computer, other people roaming around looking busy. He forgets every single person as soon as he is introduced to them, but his patented polite smile is enough to pretend he is actually paying attention.

They turn one last corner. A skinny brown haired guy who can't be older than 20 crashes into Mr. G and hastily turns his eyes away from his clipboard.

“I'm so sorry, sir.”

“No worries. Doc, this is Corazon. He's the head of our newest line of research. All thanks to you, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah?” Nolan looks at the guy up and down. How can this guy be head of research?

He doesn't have enough time to muse, because when Corazon steps away Nolan has a clear line of sight at what's behind him. And what's behind him is a cage, what looks like a human body sprawled on its side on the floor, a hospital gown hanging loosely from its shoulders.

The body's back is to Nolan, exposing two angry red gashes running vertically. The Jersey Devil's wings, so wide and ominous that they induced a fear unlike anything else back in the forest, are nowhere to be seen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware this has taken forever to post, and I am so sorry for anyone who was expecting a consistent upload schedule.

“Where–?” Nolan swallows. “Where are its wings?”

“We sent them to the lab for processing,” Corazon says.

“Processing?” Nolan feels a sense of anger bubbling up inside him.

“We want to figure out their composition, see if there's anything unusual about them.”

He tries his hardest to keep his composure, he really does, but– “And you need the whole fucking wings for that?” he yells.

Corazon ducks. “Mr. G didn't want it to escape.”

“How the fuck is it gonna escape if it's in a motherfucking cage!”

“Doc.” Mr. G's voice is grave, and when Nolan stares into his eyes, they emit a warning.  _ Don't you dare overstep _ , is what he perceives they say.

Nolan looks back at the Devil. It's sitting on the floor of the cage now, eyes trained on Nolan, duct tape still covering its mouth. Probably moved when it heard the yelling. IV's and a heart monitor are connected to it, and for the first time Nolan can hear the beeping sound next to him. Its body looks scrawny and breakable, so pale and sickly green and Nolan wishes it was the lights playing tricks on his vision. The small cut beneath its eye seems to have closed, a faint line the sole memory of it. A part of its left horn is missing. Nolan traces its figure down to its arm, where a patch of skin seems to have been peeled away.

Nolan points at it. “Did that go to processing too?”

“Yes,” Corazon says.

“And the horn?”

“Processing,” he stammers, so low Nolan wouldn't have heard him if he wasn't standing next to him.

Nolan grits his teeth together, closes his eyes. He turns to Mr. G.

“Is there anything else I need to see, sir?”

“That is all for today.”

“When do I start?”

“Tomorrow, 8 AM, sharp.” He takes his phone out. “I'll tell Tiki to take you home. You can wait for him outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

The whole thing is a blur, from walking back out onto the building to climbing in the van to barely acknowledging Tiki telling him to put on his seatbelt. His mind only has one image in it: the poor Jersey Devil, lying in the cold cage, defeated. No wings because the fucking cherub faced 5 year old researcher probably ripped them out. Maybe that's why it still had its mouth duct taped. They realized it wouldn't go down without a fight, not without first unleashing that spine-chilling screech.

Fuck, how the hell did Nolan not see this coming? They never cared about the cryptid's living status, but this time they wanted it alive. How could he not see where this was going? But was he supposed to guess the Organization was this heartless? Was he supposed to know they could torture and dissect a living being in the name of science or the government or whatever fucking excuse they want to come up with?

But maybe Nolan is exaggerating. Maybe the Jersey Devil doesn't feel things that way. Maybe the Organization realized this. Maybe it never really screeched when it had its wings taken away, right? Right? He knows it's bullshit as soon as the thought runs through his head. Why else would they keep its mouth taped shut?

He's ruminating so much that he doesn't notice they arrived until Tiki pokes him in the arm.

“We're here, bud.”

“Sorry.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, the motion feeling clunky and mechanical.

“Can I use your bathroom? I need to pee.”

“Sure.”

He walks to the front door of his building, holds it open for Tiki, walks to his apartment door, opens it, and the whole time it feels like somebody else is doing things for him, like he's a puppet in a play he doesn't want to be a part of.

“It's right down the hallway,” he tells Tiki.

“I don't really need to pee.” Tiki leans in closer. “You saw the Jersey Devil, right? I heard you yelling.”

“I didn't yell,” Nolan says defensively.

Tiki ignores him. “It looks miserable.”

This is a test from Mr. G, Nolan can tell. He shrugs.

“I wish I could do something for it,” Tiki says.

“You should talk to Mr. G about that.”

Tiki scoffs. “Like he fucking cares.”

Nolan is aghast. “Dude, he’s your fucking boss.”

“So?”

So he’s going to hear you shit-talking him because you’re wired and recording this whole conversation because Mr. G sent you so he can know if I’m not to be trusted so he can make me disappear off the face of this earth, Nolan wants to say.

“I'm telling you what I think, and what I think is that that creature is in pain. I want to do something about it.”

"It's just… wings, man. I don't think it's in pain," Nolan mumbles.

"You don't–? Fine, bud, we'll see about that." Tiki rushes to the door and shuts it behind him, leaving Nolan positively puzzled.

☿♆☿♆

Nolan arrives at the Organization at 7:50 AM the next day, popping into Mr. G's office to apologize for yesterday's outburst, but he hasn't arrived. When he settles down in his desk, he finds a note stating that, from 8 to 12, he is assigned to do research on the Kansas City Winged Demon, which old Nolan would say he already read about, but the new Nolan—the Nolan who hears Ghost mocking him in his sleep—knows better. He needs to train to track it down for when “the current experiment is terminated”, a comment which he doesn't want to spend a second trying to decode. While he reads, the door opens and Mr. G stands there, imposing.

Nolan stands up immediately. "Sir, I wanted to talk to you."

"Come with me."

Nolan realizes for the first time that Mr. G's office is spacious, way bigger than the cramped little room he shares with Ghost and Piano. Mr. G sits down and beckons for Nolan to take a seat across his desk.

"Sir, I just want to say I'm so sorry for what happened yesterday. I had never seen a–"  _ Person _ , is what Nolan is about to say. But that… doesn't sound right. "A cryptid in that state. I shouldn't have spoken that way."

"I understand it must have been shocking. However, you need to understand, Doc, this facility's primary objective is to investigate flying cryptids. So it shouldn't seem far fetched that we want to know how their bodies work."

You can know how a body works without taking out its fucking wings, so no, Mr. G, Nolan doesn't fucking get why you have to submit the poor creature to torture. However, "Yes, sir, I understand," is what he says.

From 1 to 4, he’s basically Corazon's little bitch.

He spends his days running to and from the cage, handling the vials of blood, he assumes, that are taken out of the Devil, writing down its vitals every hour, transcribing shit. He learns that Corazon is kind of weird: he never looks the Devil in the eye, never so much as directs a word toward it, but does talk to the little vials as if they were his children. Sometimes, when he gets too close to the cage, the Devil shrieks and, even though it's muffled, it's enough to send Corazon straight to his office, where he ducks underneath his desk and does breathwork, whatever the fuck that is. After exactly five minutes, he always comes back out to finish his job.

In the midst of this he notices the monotony, the routines inside the Organization. When Nolan gets there early enough, he can reliably find Corazon sitting in his office, a wet towel placed on his eyes, his head tilted back. He always enters the room with the cage at 8:15 AM and starts the tests while Nolan settles into his desk to do more research. Piano and Ghost are just there, typing away, filing paperwork. Mr. G arrives at 9 on the dot, says hi to whoever was in the security room that night. Most of the time it's Snake, but it seems like once a week Coots takes over. He sees Tiki bouncing around the place, moving in and out of rooms, kind of like an intern. Maybe he is one; it would certainly explain why he's always relegated to the more menial tasks. 

But more than anything, he notices the Devil staring at him every chance it gets. When they're fixing its feeding tube, when they're drawing blood, when Nolan is alone recording its vitals, the Devil always follows him intently. Sometimes Nolan makes eye contact with it, and for the life of him he can't decipher whatever it's trying to convey. But it never looks angry at Nolan, never accusing him of anything. It definitely should.

Enough time passes that Nolan feels comfortable, almost too comfortable. He needs to remind himself on an almost daily basis of how the Devil's lack of wings are a direct product of the Organization's ruthlessness, of Corazon's sterile detachedness, and how the only reason they haven't attempted removing its horns completely is because they haven't felt the need to. 

Until the day he doesn't need to remind himself of anything. 

It’s a Wednesday morning, the most awful day of the week, and Nolan’s downing a cup of coffee when he hears it. A high pitched cry, so raw and broken it makes his stomach turn, dull but loud enough that Nolan surges to his feet in search of the origin. 

He dashes toward the cage, just to check, even as he’s trying to convince himself it couldn’t be, even as he’s trying to forget that the sound was eerily similar to that one back in the forest that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He reaches the cage and sees Corazon standing in front of it, turning dials on some weird contraption, pushing a button. And then the blood curdling screech, an endless echo that surrounds Nolan. The Devil crumples to the ground and Corazon pushes another button. Nolan hears small whimpers coming from the cryptid, muffled by the duct tape, but not enough to stop his heart from breaking.

“Corazon,” Nolan says steadily, mustering whatever sense of calm remains in his soul. 

Corazon looks at him and back at his watch. “Hey, Doc. It’s not 1 o’ clock yet. Is everything okay?”

“I heard the Devil.”

“Oh, you did? I’m sorry. I’ll have to tell Mr. G we need a better soundproofing system.”

Nolan’s mouth feels dry. “What are you doing to it?”

“Testing out its pain levels. It seems to have a much higher tolerance than humans.”

“Why?”

“I’m not too sure. I think the threshold value for its nociceptors is much higher, but we need to conduct more studies.”

“I meant… why are you causing it pain?”

Corazon looks at him, confusion etched into his face. “It’s part of the research protocol.”

Nolan takes a shaky breath. He feels his brain collapsing, melting into an amorphous blob which can't distinguish research from torture, good from wrong, hunting from being hunted, moral from immoral. He turns to look at the Devil, still collapsed on the floor. Some instinct deep inside of him propels him forward, making him crouch in front of the cage, locking eyes with the Devil. He hears Corazon objecting, but ignores him.

“Are you okay?” he asks the Devil.

It blinks rapidly, looks up at the ceiling, and back at Nolan. It hums behind the duct tape and nods, a piece of hair falling from its predetermined place behind its ear. Slowly, Nolan lifts his hand.

“You really shouldn’t do that. It screams if anyone touches it.”

Nolan completely disregards the warning, his fingers softly holding the strand of hair, tucking it behind its ear like if he moves too fast he might break it. The Devil gazes at him steadily, mumbles something behind the duct tape, and Nolan thinks it might be trying to say  _ thank you _ .

He rises and mentally starts constructing a wall between himself and his emotions. “Corazon, I think you need to stop.”

“I can’t. There’s still more to research.”

“At least until there’s a better soundproofing system. I don’t think we’ll be able to concentrate with the screams.” He can feel his lower lip wobbling.

Corazon hums, which Nolan takes as agreement. 

He heads straight to his office and pretends he’s looking at a map of Kansas City, Ghost and Piano making jokes, talking amicably. All while a living being is tortured less than 20 meters from them.

He dreads the moment the clock strikes 1, dreads having to go back and see what kind of suffering Corazon is inflicting upon the Devil now. But when he arrives at the cage, it's business as usual, the beeping of the monitor, taking vitals, helping with body fluids. It's everything he's always done, but now he's infinitesimally more aware of the Devil's gaze on him, the pallor of its skin, its clavicles more pronounced, its shoulders drawn in, so unlike the striking beast that hunted him down or even the weird creature that laughed at Nolan, that found amusement in everything. 

He thinks of the Devil's life in the Blue Hole. It looked so peaceful in those few seconds before Nolan gave away his position, before its life came crashing down. Nolan imagines it spent its days there, basking in the sunlight, bathing in the deep blue, soaring high above the trees at night: wild, unbound, fierce, strong,  _ free _ . And now it's just a shadow, a cardboard cutout of what it used to be.

And it's all Nolan's fault.

It's the only thing he thinks about as Tiki drives him home from work. Mr. G doesn't instruct him to do so anymore, but Tiki still does it. Out of the goodness of his heart or just plain inertia, Nolan isn't sure, but he still welcomes the familiarity. Anything to give him a sense of being grounded, to make him believe getting wrapped up with the Organization wasn't as big of a mistake as he's starting to think.

"Hey, man, can I piss?" Tiki asks once they've reached Nolan's house. 

Nolan rolls his eyes, but doesn't object. 

When they're inside, Tiki slams Nolan against the door.

"What the fuck?"

"You heard the Devil screaming today, right? You're gonna fucking tell me it's not in pain?"

Nolan pushes him away. "I don't know what the fuck is your problem, or what you fucking want me to confess to, but it's not gonna happen, okay? Stop fucking with me."

"Confess?"

"Yeah, man, I know you're trying to get something out of me. But it's not gonna happen." Nolan sets his jaw and hopes his eyes irradiate enough hatred to make Tiki back off.

But Tiki just huffs a humorless laugh. "That's what you think? Fuck, Doc, you're fucking stupid." He raises his arms, flailing out his jacket, and does a little spin. "You can check me if you want. I don't have anything on me. Jesus."

Nolan blinks.

"I've been fucking tell you, man. They're fucking torturing that thing in there. It's fucked up. We need to do something about it."

“Well, what can we do, Tiki? It's locked in a cage at the end of the hallway, probably with 24/7 security—”

“Definitely 24/7 security.”

“—And stupid fucking Corazon looking at it every single day. What is your fucking plan, exactly?”

Tiki smiles. "Does that mean you're on board?" 

"Fuck, man, I don't know." Nolan pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes, presses in and in and in until everything around him is pitch black, blacker than the Devil's eyes, not black enough to erase that face from where it seems to have made a permanent residence in Nolan's head. He lets his hands drop to his sides, swivels his head around the room, trying to find something to focus on. "You've been in here too long. And you need to find a better excuse than pissing, for fuck's sake."

"Okay, I'll go. But I'll be back tonight, all right? And I'll tell you everything."

☿♆☿♆

The everything Tiki tells him about is, as it turns out, a shitty fucking plan, something that Nolan could’ve up with alone, something that will almost certainly get them both killed if either of them does something wrong. But it's all Nolan has, and Tiki seems to know the place better than anyone else. 

That's the awful line of thinking that lands Nolan at the back of Tiki's car one week later, headed straight to the Organization in the middle of the night.

"You got everything, right?" Nolan asks.

"Yeah, Doc. Relax. I know what I'm doing."

Nolan starts to ponder what exactly Tiki has done in his life that he knows what he's doing in a breaking and entering scenario when the big building hosting the Organization looms a couple of meters in front of them. Tiki crawls to a stop.

"What time you got?" Tiki says.

"12:32:46 AM."

"Perfect. We're all set. Remember, 10 minutes after we separate."

"Got it." They open their doors softly, making sure not to alert anyone or anything in the vicinity.

"Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck in there."

"Good luck out there."

They creep down the street until they're next to the building and Tiki disappears out the back. Nolan does a quick run down to make sure he has everything he needs; the balaclava with the too scratchy fabric, the black gown that is too big, the gun in his too sweaty hand, the heart inside his body pounding too hard, and the thoughts in his brain too scattered. All set, then.

He stays still for the whole 10 minutes, the anxiety nailing his feet to the ground while he waits for the portico lights to turn off. When they do, he has to peel his body away from the wall he propped himself against, short, choppy breaths the only thing his lungs allow.

He moves through the building fast, not wanting to spend anything more than what is necessary in there. He reaches the door of the Organization, checks to make sure the cameras' red lights are off, and lightly shoves the door open.

Inside, everything is dark and eerily calm. He consciously slows down his breathing and leans against the right wall, walking with it as his guide as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the blackness.

He feels a loss of continuity on the wall and guesses he's reached the first turn. He keeps walking.

When he reaches the second loss of continuity, he turns right. His eyes can barely make out a rectangle in one of the walls, but it's enough to remind him to pull out the keys to Corazon's office that Tiki gave him.

Nolan can't see shit, but he makes out something that looks like a desk and heads for it. He opens all the drawers—and there's a fuckton of drawers—until he finally gets to the last one, fumbling until his fingers wrap around the hard metal of a key,  _ the _ key that can set the Devil free.

He walks toward the cage with more purpose now, seeing the possibility of an end where everything is just fine, in and out, quick and easy, like pulling the trigger.

The cage is darker than anywhere else and Nolan, against his will, taps the screen of his watch to offer some sort of illumination.

"Hey," Nolan whispers. "It's me. It's… Doc. You remember me?"

His eyes scan the dark, his watch following closely behind, until they settle on a pale face with deep sunken eyes, darker than everything around them.

Nolan clears his throat. "I'm here to break you out. But I need you to… I need you to keep still for me. Can you do that?"

The Devil only offers an impenetrable gaze.

"I need to know you're not gonna… scream or bolt or whatever, when I open this door. Otherwise, we're both dead. Can I trust you?"

The Devil places its hands, still bound, on the bars of the cage. Silently waiting. Nolan takes that as a yes and opens the cage.

The door makes a screeching sound and Nolan stops immediately. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath.

The Devil holds one hand out, the other one gripping the door and pulling it upward, and pushes it aside noiselessly. Nolan realizes the Devil is much stronger than he thought, even in this undernourished state, but he doesn't have time to deliberate on that. He turns off all the machines whose buttons he can find and, after a quick prayer to the universe or God or whatever, he pulls off all the IV's and monitors and shit stuck to the Devil's body. One of the things starts fucking beeping, and Nolan's senses light up.

"We need to go. Now."

He holds the Devil’s forearm as they walk, backs pressed against the corridor wall. They shuffle quietly down the hallway, Nolan perking up his ears in search of anything, whatever that might—

A click. Footsteps... slow, deliberate, heavy. Nolan grips his gun tightly and angles it toward the noise. He's blinded by a burst of light coming down the hallway where a big, looming figure with a head of fire holds a flashlight. It dashes toward them.

Nolan almost rams the Devil into the wall on their left, narrowly escaping into the hallway that branches off.

He interlocks his and the Devil’s arms.

“We need to hide,” Nolan whispers so low he’s not sure if it heard him.

He sees a door in front of them and rushes into the room behind it. They bury themselves under a desk and, for the first time since entering the building, Nolan can feel the adrenaline taking hostage every part of his body, making his heart drum so loudly he can barely register anything else. He tries to concentrate on the door that he can’t see, forces himself to rein in his thoughts. But his lungs can’t take in enough oxygen and his hand shakes so much that his gun almost slips his grip. He feels reality falling around him, the dark enveloping him. The imminent risk of death detonates sirens in his head, until all he can see is a deep red staining the black around him, his body cold on the ground, a failed mission, a lost life.

He feels a hand on top of his, warm, steady. It guides him to hold the gun properly and helps him point it toward the door. He uses this one action to tether him to reality, and silently thanks the Devil for keeping his shit together when Nolan is falling apart.

He disentangles his arm from the Devil’s and crouches behind the desk, positioning the gun on the wooden slab in front of him. The Devil mimics his movements.

“When he opens the door, I’m gonna shoot at him. And then we run, got it?”

The Devil nods, and even in the darkness Nolan can see its determination in its eyes.

A small noise alerts him the guard is near. Nolan takes a deep breath in, holds it.

The guard opens the door, flashlight pivoting around the room.

Nolan exhales and puts a bullet right through the flashlight. The guard shoots back in the dark, hides behind another desk. Nolan and the Devil rush to the door, firing shot after shot.

They run down the hallway, turn right. A bullet nicks Nolan’s ear. He shoots at his back blindly. 

They turn down the main corridor, bullets raining behind them. The Devil misses a step but regains its pace. Nolan grips its hand tightly, refusing to let this plan be unsuccessful. They race down the hall, Nolan's lungs feeling like they're on fire. He really needs to do more aerobic exercise.

He can hear the guard closing in on them, knows they won’t make it to the door in time. He wracks his brain in search of a way out, a way to elongate the seconds. But he knows there's only one thing he can do. 

He twists his torso, aiming his gun at the guard. The bullet he shoots shatters his kneecap, sending the guard tumbling down.

Nolan and the Devil escape hand in hand into the cool night air, where Tiki is already revving the engine of his car as they close the door behind them.

"You good?" Tiki asks.

"We're good. But the guard isn't."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I shot him."

"You shot Snake?" Tiki yells.

"I didn't have a choice. He almost caught us."

"We said no casualties, Doc!"

"Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Let him kill us?"

"Fuck!" Tiki slams his hands against the steering wheel. "We need to call an ambulance, man."

"What? No! They're gonna figure out it was us!"

"Would you rather let him die?"

"Would you rather  _ we _ die?" Nolan shouts.

"I'd rather no one die."

"Well, that's too fucking bad, Tiki. In case you hadn't noticed, we just committed a crime. We can't be making stupid mistakes now. They're gonna be on our asses any minute."

Tiki sighs loudly, drums his fingers against the steering wheel. Then he says in a low voice, "Dude, it's not his fucking fault. He shouldn't have to die for doing his job."

Nolan slams his head against the headrest. He feels the Devil tap his shoulder and turns his head to face it. It points at Tiki and nods, points at Nolan and shakes its head.

"You're fucking kidding me," Nolan says. The Devil shakes its head.

"What's wrong?" Tiki asks from the front.

"The Devil says I'm an asshole and you're right."

"That's because you are an asshole and I'm right."

Nolan scoffs. "So, I'm an asshole for wanting to keep us alive? Fine, you know what? Fuck this." He throws his phone at Tiki. "Call an ambulance, call the fucking police for all I care."

Tiki picks it up and types 9-1-1 in it while still driving, which would normally irritate Nolan, but he could not possibly be more infuriated right now.

Tiki places the call, gives all the pertinent information way too gingerly for Nolan's taste, and ends it. "There  _ are _ criminals with standards, you know."

Nolan stares out the window. "This is a big fucking mistake, and I hope you both know that."

"Doc, we got the Devil, okay? That's all that matters."

Nolan hopes that's enough.


End file.
